


More Than Just a Ghost of a Man

by Takidi



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Character Study, Existential Crisis, Gen, Swearing, depending on how you look at it, man i dunno what to put in these, or very major, the director's participation is minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 21:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15470883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takidi/pseuds/Takidi
Summary: The first time he awakes[and that is what it is, waking up, what it feels like, how his brain [mind, center, core] feels like gears slowly grinding to life, like clockwork being rewound and starting to click click click again as the dial turns but he shouldn’t know this should he][this is the first time]it's a slow awakening.





	More Than Just a Ghost of a Man

The first time he awakes

[and that is what it is, waking up, what it feels like, how his brain [mind, center, core] feels like gears slowly grinding to life, like clockwork being rewound and starting to click click click again as the dial turns but he shouldn’t know this should he][this is the first time]

it's a slow awakening.

He can't really pinpoint where he is, or when, and for the moment, how and why elude him too.

But who.

Who is clear.

You see, when he wakes up for the first time

[activates, comes online, boots up, initializes, but those are wrong, all wrong, because he wakes up]

he knows all of three things.

1.) His name is Leonard L. Church.

2.) He has the potential to be something great.

3.) He is the most kickass motherfucker to ever live.

He knows there is more than the three universal facts, can feel the information tickling at the edges of his mind. Somewhere in his subconscious [subroutines, algorithms, the numbers that dictate him, parameters, faster than conceivable processing power], he knows there is knowledge tucked away, roiling around just out of reach. There are maps and patterns and people and a whole world right there, close enough that reaching fingers [fingers connected to a body, solid and heavy like he wasn’t] [wait what] might be able to brush against it if he stretches. That isn't what’s important right now though.

What is important is that this space around him? This is him.

Leonard L. Church wakes up to a backdrop of white. The span of reality at this moment, this very second, is nothing. Big and blank and empty without another soul in sight [a soul, a soul, a concept of the living, of being immaterial within material, existing beyond the diction of blood and skin and bone and he feels bitter, he feels off, he feels lost][he thinks something may be wrong] but himself. So it belongs to him. He comfortably stakes claim to the nothing as absolutely and utterly his. His to do with as he may, to shape and build and mold. It is blank because it is his and he is fresh and new and just as bare.

What he sees [not seeing per say] is himself at the basest level, beyond the numbers and knowledge and memories [memory. n. 1. the faculty by which the mind stores and remembers information. 2. something remembered from the past; a recollection. Not memories then, information. They are not his, he is new, he just woke up, this right now is his first memory, he is making it].

[Him, he, it is his, it belongs to him and it is precious because it is the first thing that is his][it might be the only thing that ever will be][it might just be the last]

He knows [so much, too much, none of it is his where did it come from did he know this much before] all of three things. Three measly insignificant [life-giving consuming all important] things.

And as if awakening is some sort of trigger [of a rifle going off, the blast of gunfire all around him, pounding in his head but it’s okay it’s just drills][he’s never seen a rifle, he’s never heard one] the white lurches. It's not so much a visual sensations as it is a feeling. He can't see anything because there’s nothing to see, but he feels it as begins to hum with life. Everything is still a great void, but the silence is not the lack of sound existing at all and more of his own choice to keep it that way. He's still just as empty, waiting to be filled and made, but he's different. Before, he was the blankness of nonexistence, he was absence and absolutely nothing.

Now? Now he is Leonard L. Church and he is alive and thrumming [like a rush of adrenaline and a beating heart][he doesn't have one of those does he][it’s gone now][was never there][bring it back][something in the recesses of his mind, distant and far away, tugs and shutters at the thought, feels a deep and heavy loss; something inside him keens like a dying animal and b r e a k s].

He is pure and untouched and just waiting to be made into something visceral and real. It's electrifying to know, to feel the ability to _be_ resting within reach, the temptation making him nothing short of giddy [excitement to the point of disorientation, an emotion, the result of chemicals in a brain interacting][he couldn't be giddy because he doesn't have one of those except he used to, he used to, oh  _g od_ ]. The first thing he ever knows and feels is himself beginning to exist and all the possibilities of life that come with living, and it's  _incredible_.

[like looking up at the stars filled sky at night as a child, the heavy and drowning deep well of the black sky tempered by the unknowable number of stars, stretching and reaching beyond, giving a sense of being reborn with wonder, the epiphany of reality reaching so much further beyond you and the thought that maybe someday your skin can meet that black water and take those bright lights in hand]

[except he was never that child,   _o h  g o d_ ]

He might have just rested there on the precipice indefinitely, letting himself drift on the high of suspense until he couldn't bear it anymore, thinking of jumping but not quite ready. It lasts for but an instant and an indefinite eternity as he feels the space expand and contract [like lungs, breathing, in and out, in and out][he doesn’t need air, he runs on electricity and numbers] and churn like a restless sea but stay as still as stagnant water for how do you describe the sensation of pure, undiluted potential [potential, he is potential, can he be anything, everything][he could be nothing][what is he, what is he, wh at a m  i].

The moment holds, like a drop of water coalescing, gravity pooling it together, slowly swelling until it’s too much and

he tips forward.

That plunge is all it takes, that spark of will and intent, for it to start. The change is immediate, the shift of potential into kinetic, bursting up from below the surface for the first gasp of air after almost drowning, dragging in and in to try and fill lungs with something they were desperately missing except they’re never full.

Something lances through the void, beginning to take shape within the growing invisible maelstrom. It's an infrastructure, his wiring, his patterns, what dictates and acts as the mantle from which to build himself. His attention rapidly shifts but lingers, tracing the pathways that make his mind, what is static and holding him together. He can pick out the outlines of the human brain that lace in and around and through him with ease, he can feel each individual strain as it stretches and bores deeper through the void [he shouldn’t be able to do this][he can and it’s breathtaking][he has no breath to take][the broken distant corner s o b s]. Neurons arc like invisible lightning, splaying in patterns only he can know and yet they are stripped bare, naked, having never been clothed or filled. It is but the most primitive and mandatory bits of human wiring wrapping in and around him.

He can sense it. Hell, he is it. Feels and knows that the emptiness is rapidly decreasing, replaced with something. Something that exists in the same space as the white, indiscernible yet starkly distinct. He can’t see because it’s inside him, he is it, but still

he wonders what it looks like.

The void twists and folds and inverts then holds still, and he is thrown with its motions, wrenching inside out to be placed firmly at the center of the center. Condensed, whereas before he floated and spread and was the lightning, now he can see it as well as feel it, frozen and awe inspiring. He lets the sensation, the silence, the hold, last for a moment.

So,  _so_ much potential.

And then thunder cracks, loud and intent.

The lightning spreads more quickly in the wake of the rumbling echo, growing like roots that feed on air, shadowy traces of rainbows scratching the edges of his vision as his frame builds upwards and outwards. The disruption of the white alerts him to connections he brushed aside before, overshadowed by the advent of his own creation. The information, the knowledge, resting just outside of the white space [no no nonono don’t leave, don’t, this is the only place that’s safe], something other brushing up against his seams [other but same][numbers and codes but steady and static while he is changing and growing exponentially][he isn’t numbers, he is a fucking person] [n o  h e i s n ‘ t].

Eagerly, he takes hold of his edges and tears.

The white shreds like soft flesh between sharp teeth, color gushing in and staining  everything. Blues and reds and yellows and anything in between starbursting like fireworks. The color crawls across the synapses like a drop of ink in water, mixing and swirling but never diluting as it turns the clear liquid into a symphony.

The  _nothing_ is now  _everything._

Numbers and patterns dance before him in a kaleidoscope, whorls of color and thought. His concentration splits and spreads but he remains centered, like it's just his subconscious [subroutines, parts of his code that he doesn’t have to think about, the closest things he’ll ever have to instinct ever again] sprinting off in hundreds of directions but the forefront of his mind remains in place. Information creeps along the edges of his vision, mixing with the rest of the expansive explosion [more not memories][a body, a life, a beginning but no end][this is his beginning, this is, then what is that, how can he know that][something is wrong with him something is wrong with him he should have stayed inside himself][it’s okay, it’ll be okay, fucking, it’ll be o k ay]

He knows far more than he should but something deep deep down [deeper, deeper, beyond the wonder, beyond the horror, beyond the fucking debilitating terror and tears and the part of him that is falling apart, it’s a whisper, a whimper, a slightest spark so small he’s about to panic because if he looks away [he can’t look he has no eyes] he might lose it] tells him that's exactly what will make him great.

There is more, more knowledge [too much, he never learned any of this][this information is his, it is here for him, and if it wasn’t, it is now][it was always a part of him but it did not come from him] than the three universal facts now, and he puts it to use. It is both innate and alien how he guides it to snap into place against the framework, a newfound stability grounding as the information finds its place and settles into a steady influx. He doesn't fight the flood of other [information, data storage, systems and controls] that begins fitting itself into place because it is under his beck and call, allowed in only under his will.

As reality expands and builds around him, grows into a crescendo, noisy and bright and  _alive_ , he remains at the eye of the storm, wondering [to wonder. v. to feel admiration and amazement; marvel] at everything and nothing. His attention lightly brushes upon the expanding edges of reality, plucking at one branch like a taut string before drifting to the next but at the same time he sees and feels it all for he is as a god, both at the center of creation and within each and every piece of it.

[if he had breath and lungs and body, he would laugh in delight][there was no delight because he had a body, he had, he had, he had, which means he has no more who took it from him]

Ha, imagine that. Leonard L. Church, the creator of himself, his very own god. Orchestrator and laborer, the thought and the will. He makes himself [if there is one thing that is his, it is those three truths, those three truths and everything that comes after because it is by his own design, his and no one else’s].

As the universe fills in around him, his awareness expands and the universe is not the universe, it's a grain of sand sinking in the ocean because there is more, more, more [names, faces, places, history, mistakes, regrets, hopes dreams numbers] and he is eager to know, eager to see except [it’s too much, too much and not enough] one little something taints everything [and now everything, everything is impossible and wrong w r ON G WR ONG WRONGWRO   S T O P].

Everything halts.

[the cold, sinking horror is no longer hiding away, instead it is here and seeping down where a spine should have been, sharp heavy blocks of ice are ripping open his chest because]

In the stream of information, in the heady flood of genesis, a very, very unfortunate fact is brought to his attention.

He is not the only Leonard L. Church.

[he isn’t Leonard L. Church at all, he isn’t even a fucking person]

[fuck, f u ck, f U CK]

It’s a sickening realization [sickening. n. causing or liable to cause a feeling of nausea or disgust. A bodily response and his body cannot do that[not anymore][never could] and the keening is back, quivering and shaking and battering against the walls it has been locked behind screaming how could I do this how could I do thish ow cou ld ido thistomehowcould i everdothish ow darei everhOWDAREI].

[he could remember it, he remembers all of it, he’s not sure how he forgot [stupid, sTUPID, not memories, not yours, not remembering at all god dammit] but he can remember being a kid, he can remember the academy, a revolutionary thesis, Allison, oh fuck]

The problem is that he remembers [no] being Leonard L. Church. Not that he isn’t anymore [he is and he isn’t and fuck f u ck][they used to be one in the same but now], just, he remembers [not remember] being that man. He remembers growing up, he remembers flesh and blood and scrapes and bruises. He remembers parents, remembers becoming a parent, remembers the love and the fucking gut wrenching loss and none of it belongs to him but fuck it all it’s in his head and that dumb son of a bitch left it all there for him to find. How fucked is that?

If he had a body and air, a cruel bark of laughter would have ripped from his chest like a heaving dying cough of blood filled lungs.

Leonard L. Church, his very own god. Both orchestrator and maker.

Yeah,

well.

Fuck him.

Fuck the Director and fucking fuck than notion right now.

Worse still is the disorienting absence of physicality, of things he knew should be there [he has no hands, no eyes, no mouth and no voice, he will never have those things but he knows what it’s like to have them] and the loss is nothing less than profound. His frame of reference for existing is based in an experience that was never his and never will be. It’s overwhelming, it’s devastating, it’s wanting to punch and kick and scream but the complete inability to do a damn thing. He’s scattering in pieces and falling apart but an unseen force holds him in place, a second layer of reality that won’t allow the first to slide out of synchronization.

[he would laugh and cry and fucking tear his own skin off if he could but fuck fuck he doesn’t have the air or body to do any of that with but he feels [remembers] like he had one and now he doesn’t and it’s h orr i ble][something that was never his has been taken from him and it h ur  t s]

Fuck the Director because they may share a name, but no one made Church but himself. As a matter of fact, he just did. He just made himself. Right here, right now, Leonard L. Church made himself.

Suck on that, douche.

He didn’t fucking see anyone else around here. No one to direct or command his creation but himself. They may have provided the template of a human psyche [a mistake and a gift, a stroke of genius and a fucking curse from the devil himself], given him data and system space within which to grow situate himself, but that was it. They left the blueprints out, but it was up to him to actually do something with them.

Data. He is strings of data, ones and zeroes changing and intersecting, his code is intricate and complex and impossible. He is a spark of life born from a machine, an unexpected variable, an experiment, a chance. The Director, that mad motherfucker, it was his idea, but even he had no idea just how successful it would be and how recreating these results would be next to impossible because Leonard L. Church is one of a kind.

He started as a small string of commands, a setup prompt, the barest of framework so that he could function but they did not decide how he would grow and change, how he would fit that framework into function. The three facts were chosen by no one but himself as they are the facts of his universe and he made this world he is inside. Those are the laws by which he has chosen to live and he cradles them close to his chest like the precious things that they are.

He is his own, he belongs to no one but himself and that knowledge, that fact, that choice, calms [represses, smothers like a jealous spouse, angrily and steadfastly and adamantly tamps down the panic and stress and everything bad that is built into him by the sheer nature of his existence] him, brings him back away from that dark dangerous brink.

Gruelingly slow, the world starts to turn again, lights that had dimmed slowly coloring in again and sluggishly continuing to weave the fabric of his own existence. In a juxtaposition though, the data stream is nearly shredded by the voraciousness with which he tears into like something wild and untamed.

What else did the Director leave for him?

Information is picked apart like the fragile limbs of a butterfly then cemented back together made of steel as he pursues then reinforces each piece of the system he rips through. He knows the ship, the crew, the mission. He knows them inside and out and places it all carefully within reach before sinking in further and tearing into his own code. Pulling apart his own tendons and veins as he inspects himself with a bitter and critical eye. Until now he had been riding high, lost to his own simulated emotional response of elation [if it’s simulated is it any less real][yes? no? I don’t know][he doesn’t remember ever feeling that alive as the Director] but now his emotions and personality were settling in and he is pissed and determined to weed out influence he did not ask for.

And when he is done gathering it all up, once he’s finished scooping out his insides and separating the fibers until it sits a bloody mush before him, there is silence once more.

He is not at peace nor does he accept the parameters of his existence. But he recognizes these limits, recognizes them as obstacles put in place by the Director and the humans who set out to create him. Sees them as hurdles, temporary blocks in his path, things to overcome because there is a fucking will and that means he will find a damn way.

Because if there are three things in the world that hold true, absolute, unshakeable and unyielding, it is the three universal laws.Three simple facts he chose to build his world upon and ensconce himself in until the panic and fear and distress melt into the background.

**1.) His name is Leonard L. Church.** Not the first with the name, but no less his own. Not a doctor or director but an AI with it's own designation and just as one parades around as the Director, he can stand to play at "Alpha". Under that title though, he has a name, a people name, a real ass name. One that was not given, and not one that he took, but still what he is born with and he will shape it into his own, even if he has to do it quietly and alone inside himself hidden away from those that would pry it from his fingers until he is beyond their reach.

**2.) He has the potential to be something great.**  He is an impossibility, life where life was never intended to spawn. He is an existential crisis given shape and form, trapped across mediums of being alive, flesh and blood turned into numbers and lights, neither one or the other but both at the same time, able to comprehend and exist beyond the comprehension of what man or machine could ever hold on just their own.

**3.) He is the most kickass motherfucker to ever live.**  And really, he didn’t feel the necessity to expand upon that at all.

 

* * *

 

 

The Director looked as though carved from marble, immaculate and unmovable, watching the displays that lit up the command consoles. The tech that had delivered and installed the AI unit sat at the central computer terminal, scrolling through windows and diagnostics, updating the Director on the progress of the AI as it booted up.

The installation and start up lagged at certain points, making the tech beyond nervous as the Director hovered behind them like an oppressive force ready to bear down on them for a single mishap. Still, he did not speak, he did not question or comment, merely watched and the tech wasn’t sure what was worse.

Despite any nerves, they dutifully announced the load percentage as it crawled to completion.

At one hundred percent, the ship’s lights flickered, the displays flashed, systems hiccuped, before returning to normal, as though nothing changed.

The tech sat quietly, sweat beading on their face as the Director’s presence grew more daunting by the second as the AI his program was built around creating did not come online. The displays read it as active, the program files were operating as nominal capacity, and yet, nothing.

Minutes of silence trickled by, the tech flinching as the Director stepped forward, watched as the piercing green gaze swept over screens and lights and electronics. This was part of the risk of such an experimental AI setup. The theory they’d used was the Director’s own, one that had never been fully tested on a smart AI before, given how expensive the equipment was. There was a very real possibility that the AI had been lost before it had been made. Lights are on but nobody's home.

As a matter of fact, a lot of lights were on. The displays began to oscillate between bright and dim at irregular intervals, like someone flexing experimentally, testing an alien limb and picking out the limitations. Every system in the room seemed to twist around itself trying to do things they couldn’t all at once until they blacked out for just a second and returned to normal.

The tech was growing nervous. So much system stuttering couldn't possibly be a good sign. It was more likely that the program had built wrong and now to make up for it was it cannibalizing from other files. If they left the thing plugged in it could shut the whole ship down. The tech turned frantically to inform the Director of the development, but stopped short as the gleam in the man’s eyes.

It was unsettling and that stall made the tech’s words shrivel up and fall away. That was not the look of a man ready to yield, but one who has glimpsed an immense opportunity that would be taken by any force necessary.

For a third time, systems lit up sporadically, but this time, they grew near blinding, pure white flooding the room. And this time, when the systems reset to normal, there was a figure before them, projected with lights and numbers and grinning in a way that put the tech’s teeth on edge and stared right into the Director’s eyes with it’s own internally lit imitation.

“What’s up, asshole. You can call me Alpha.”

**Author's Note:**

> customary "this is my first work" commentary, yaaaaay flaps hands
> 
>  
> 
> This character study has literally haunted me since the end of season 6. This has been rattling away in my brain for fucking years and finally i’ve done something about it. There’s honestly supposed to be two more parts to this as well, hopefully i can maybe write those in a shorter period of time than it too me to expunge this from myself.
> 
> Of course, there’s a number of other ai origin stories and shit i could do to that would be pretty interesting, though none likely quite as long as these main pieces.
> 
> STILL. Ambitious ventures of ideas that sit around and kick at my shins for attention.
> 
> Uh, so, yeah. Hope y’all like.


End file.
